Tell Me Something Good
by How Clever of You
Summary: Spike and Jules paint the living room and mull over recent events. / Set somewhere between Acceptable Risk and Fault Lines. Spoilers for both. Can be seen as a strong friendship or a relationship, depending on how you want it.


**So this might be kind of a long note because I want to explain a couple of things. Don't worry, nothing bad. First, as I was writing this, I was like awww they're best friends but once I got to the end I'm like OH GOD DID I JUST WRITE SPIKE/JULES? I did not. If you want Spike/Jules, though, then go ahead and read it like that. I was kind of obsessed with the idea of two best friends of opposite genders sleeping in the same bed without any worries of going beyond. Like Rabbit and Nancy in Trauma. ANYWAY. The second thing is kind of a joke. Somewhere in here, she calls Spike out for napping on the job. This is a joke between me and my sister. Every time he's in the command truck for extended periods of time and then Greg or someone walks in, he sits up in his chair quickly like he was caught napping. I realize, of course, that it would be super boring to just sit there doing nothing and that he was just relaxing a bit, but we have a strong belief that Spike is, in fact, a puppy, and his team members keep having to play 'wake the puppy.' If you've ever had a young dog, you might have played this - for those of you who haven't: basically, throughout the day, whenever said puppy falls asleep, you wake it up so that it's tired at the end of the day and sleeps through the night. This is not a huge part of the story, but I just wanted to explain. Lastly, I don't know what timeframe she's refinished her house by, so she might have done the living room by "Acceptable Risk." Oh, well.**

**Wow. That's a long note. Onto more Flashpointy things:**

**prompt: Feels like home**

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><p>He pulled his car into the space he had cleared in the garage a week before in an effort to spring clean. There was a bicycle hanging down from the wall in front of him and two rows of tools on his right, neatly organized, the product of a weekend of sorting through wrenches and screwdrivers. He stepped out of his SUV and grabbed a can of paint; the garage door closed behind him with a loud creak. He had no doubt she knew he was there, if she was inside.<p>

There was a key wedged between the brick and the back door. His fingers found it quickly and he let himself in. Jules was clearly not back, yet, even though they had left at the same time. She'd said something in the parking lot about picking up some groceries, so he didn't know when to expect her.

He leaned back out the door and pushed the spare between the bricks, safely put away. Then he threw his car keys onto the table, toed off his boots, and went into the living room, paint can still in hand. He cranked up the old stereo while he worked, throwing layer upon layer of eggshell onto the walls. He didn't recognize the songs but he sang along anyway, making up the words as he went.

He didn't even hear Jules come in. He noticed her for the first time when she appeared next to him, already in a baggy tee shirt, overalls, and socks, paint roller in hand. "Michelangelo Scarlatti," she shouted over the music. "You're living up to your namesake, aren't you?"

He grinned at her, easing the bristles carefully against the corner of the window sill. Behind him, Jules lowered the volume on the radio. "How long have you been here?"

"Came straight from the HQ," he said, and shrugged. "I don't think I was tailed, if that's the problem."

She flicked him on the ear and stepped up to the other side of the window. "Boss knows we're friends. He's not worried."

"Not like he is about Sam?" He ducked under the handle, which she turned on him. "I was kidding. Put the deadly weapons down. I face enough danger during the work day as it is, thank you very much."

She wiped a hand across her face, laughing. Red paint smeared across her cheekbone, but he didn't mention it, instead biting his lip to stop a grin from splitting across his face, and continued along the left edge of the window. Next to him, Jules started singing along with the radio, her voice rising up and over the artist's. He liked listening to her sing; it was familiar sound, and sometimes that was all he needed.

At half past eight, headlights flashed across the glass. A beat-up old clunker rolled to a stop in front of the mailbox and a teenage delivery boy jumped out of the driver's seat. He juggled several white boxes, no doubt filled with fried noodles and greasy dumplings, and made his way up the walk.

Jules reached behind her and clicked off the music before lifting herself off the ground, where she had been painting along the trim for the past twenty minutes or so. She reached over, grabbed the wallet from Spike's pocket, and disappeared into the foyer before he could protest, calling "It's your turn, anyway!" over her shoulder.

She returned a moment later, arms full of Chinese foods cartons, and dumped them out on the floor. She tossed the wallet back to Spike and he pocketed it with a grin. Jules had already started in on the shrimp Lo Mein, but she offered some to him. He declined and reached for the dumplings.

"Intense, today, huh?" she said, covering her mouth with one hand. She hopped up, suddenly, and disappeared into the kitchen. He listened to her digging around in the fridge for a moment before she came back, two bottles of beer dangling between her fingers. She handed one to him and popped the top on the other.

"Three drug dealers behind bars," he replied and took a swig. "I'd say we did pretty good."

"You did pretty good." She scoffed and shoved him lightly. "You napping in the truck while the rest of us tried not to get shot."

"I had visual!" He put up his hands in defense. A dumpling fell off his fork and onto the ground, where is landed with a disturbing squelch. "You guys were in good hands." She just grinned and continued eating. He laughed. "Hey. Who called his brother being the ring leader, huh? Me." She shook her head at him and he nodded back. "Yeah. Uh-huh. Deny it all you want; it'll never stop being true."

"You are so full of it." She took a drink of beer and exhaled, her smile fading. "Boss is going crazy about that SIU investigation. Even if he doesn't want to admit it."

Spike pursed his lips, not very keen on talking about the recent events that had occurred at the headquarters. "He had a history with her," he said with a shrug. "She probably targeted him because of that. I know he hasn't said anything, but that's what we decided on, right?"

She ran her fingers through her hair and stared out the window for a moment. The paint was still smeared across her cheek. "I don't like that he isn't talking to us."

He picked at the remaining noodles from one of the other boxes. He had lost his appetite. Talking about this – the Boss, the shootings, the upcoming evaluations – made him a bit queasy. There was something Boss wasn't telling them, and it made him feel uncomfortable and vulnerable.

"You done?" She glanced over at him and he nodded to the boxes.

"Oh," she said, as if she had thought he was asking something else. She paused for a moment. "Yeah."

He gathered up the boxes and brought them into the kitchen, where he closed them up and stuck them in the fridge on top of the pizza box from Friday night. He grabbed two more beers, sensing a long night, and rejoined Jules in the living room, where she had already picked up her paint brush.

They worked until about twelve, when Jules claimed the need for a shower. He finished up around the doorframe, listening to the water running upstairs. There was something peaceful about the old house that made him want to stay forever. Something about the halls and the stairwells that brought up detached memories, giving him a sense of warmth and comfort. Laughter bred in the walls and beneath the floorboards, bubbling up underneath his feet. It was so unlike his own house, which held static energy from arguments and anger where love had once been.

Jules came back downstairs once she had finished. While she made herself a cup of tea, he changed into his pajamas, the unspoken invitation of spending the night urging him to do so. She entered the bedroom as he was shoving his vest back into his duffle and sat down on the bed.

"I'm sure he'll open up to us soon," she said, placing a hand over her cup to catch the warmth of the tea. He pulled on a pair of socks, grabbed the remote control off the night stand, and laid down next to her, propping himself up with two of the pillows. "The Sarge, I mean."

He traced the buttons on the device for a moment, thinking. "I know," he said. "I just… I don't understand. Why he feels like he has to keep it from us, I mean. Why he doesn't feel safe talking to us. I don't think anyone understands, not even Ed."

She sighed, stood up, and crossed the room to turn off the overhead light. Spike clicked on the bedside lamp and watched her lean against the doorframe, stirring her tea. "I don't know. But I do know he feels guilty about something. I just can't put my finger on what it is."

Melancholy silence filled the room for a few beats before Spike's finger found the red power button. The television flashed on and Jules took her place on the left side of the mattress just as the bedside light faded into darkness.

"Let's stop talking about work," he said, flipping through the channels. Jules put her cup on her night table, next to a stack of worn-out books. The titles were faded, but Spike never cared enough to flip one open to see the name. He took a deep breath and reached for her hand, smoothing his fingers over her palm.

"Tell me something good."

She smiled. "Let me think." The TV flashed as the channels blended in to one another. He settled on a rerun of George Lopez and put his arms back behind his head, mouth quirked at the edges. Finally, halfway through the episode, Jules leaned over and put her head against his shoulder. He jerked out of a half-sleep and blinked at the screen a few times.

"You're here," she whispered, and closed her eyes.


End file.
